Fanny Brocklebank looked at Mrs. Viveash. It was obvious that she was giving her her chance, and that Mrs. Viveash was making the very most of it. She was leaning forward now, with her face thrust out toward Furnival; and on her face and on her mouth and in her eyes there burned visibly, flagrantly, the ungovernable, inextinguishable flame. As for the young man, while his eyes covered and caressed her, the tilt of his body, of his head, of his smile, and all his features expressed the insolence of possession. He was sure of her; he was sure of himself; he was sure of many things. He, at any rate, would never be disconcerted. Whatever happened he was safe. But she--there were things that, if one thing happened, she would have to face; and as she sat there, wrapped in her flame, she seemed to face them, to fling herself on the front of danger. You could see she was ready to take any risks, to pay any price for the chance that Fanny was giving her. It really was too bad of Fanny. "Why did you ask them?" Straker had known Fanny so long that he was privileged to inquire. "Because--they wanted to be asked." Fanny believed, and said that she believed, in giving people what they wanted. As for the consequences, there was no mortal lapse or aberration that could trouble her serenity or bring a blush to her enduring candor. If you came a cropper you might be sure that Fanny's judgment of you would be pure from the superstition of morality. She herself had never swerved in affection or fidelity to Will Brocklebank. She took her excitements, lawful or otherwise, vicariously in the doomed and dedicated persons of her friends. Brocklebank knew it. Blond, spectacled, middle-aged, and ponderous, he regarded his wife's performances and other people's with a leniency as amazing as her own. He was hovering about old Lady Paignton in the background, where Straker could see his benignant gaze resting on Furnival and Mrs. Viveash. "Poor dears," said Fanny, as if in extenuation of her tolerance, "they _are_ enjoying themselves." "So are you," said Straker. "I like to see other people happy. Don't you?" "Yes. If I'm not responsible for their--happiness." "Who _is_ responsible?" She challenged. "I say, aren't you?" "Me responsible? Have you seen her husband?" "I have." "Well----" she left it to him. "Where _is_ Viveash?" "At the moment he is in Liverpool, or should be--on business." "You didn't ask him?" "Ask him? Is he the sort you can ask?" "Oh, come, he's not so bad." "He's awful. He's impossible. He--he excuses everything." "I don't see him excusing this, or your share in it. If he knew." "If he knew what?" "That you'd asked Furny down." "But he doesn't know. He needn't ever know." "He needn't. But people like Viveash have a perfect genius for the unnecessary. Besides----" He paused before the unutterable, and she faced him with her smile of innocent interrogation.